


In which Gil blunders over Tarvek's quiet moment

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: blundering onward [2]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Ficlet, Mild Blood, Multi, OT3, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 11:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11873727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: Gil's perspective on the same few minutes.





	In which Gil blunders over Tarvek's quiet moment

Gil hesitated in the doorway. Tarvek and Agatha looked so perfect together, she half in his lap, both of them intent on the semi-formed device in her hands. The two of them were completely comfortable with one another, sharing personal space, practically in each other’s pockets. Like old-fashioned paired gears, made for a perfect fit. Gil felt a stab of envy. Once he joined them, he would make everything awkward. 

Especially after yesterday. 

A sharp pinch to his ankle dragged him out of his thoughts. His tiny mechanical chaperone stamped its foot and glared up at him. Yes, of course. Go make its mistress happy, or else suffer. One foot in front of the other, Gil. 

Agatha glanced up at him a moment before he joined them. Her gaze, bright and hot with the Spark, might as well have tripped him. He dropped into the seat beside her, only just managing not to kick or elbow anyone on the way down. A screw bounced from Agatha’s hand into the air. Without thinking, Gil caught it and returned it to her. His reward: a kiss to the back of his hand. Soft lips. Warm breath. Green eyes watching him. Studying him. 

Gil looked away. Cowardly, he knew, but how could he trust himself? 

Agatha’s attention returned to her work. She hummed, that tuneless Heterodyning that made him feel warm right down to the tips of his toes. Tarvek’s stare bored into the side of his skull, reminding him what he had done. Say something, damn you. You know you want to. Say something. 

Rather than squirming or fidgeting, Gil reached an arm around Agatha’s shoulders. Her back arching, she leaned into the touch. Blood thundering in his ears, Gil stared stalwartly forward. Maintain control. Don’t make it awkward. Holding his breath, Gil pulled, and Agatha slid toward him. 

So did Tarvek. 

Panic battered his ribs, tearing through his insides like a wild animal desperate for escape. His head felt hot, his hands clammy. Agatha and Tarvek both leaned against him, their combined weight a comfortable pressure on his side. Had they forgotten so easily? How could they share their intimate moment with a monster?

“Lady Heterodyne likes monsters,” Higgs had once said, with a raised eyebrow and pat on Gil’s shoulder. So maybe Agatha could forgive him. He shot a glance at Tarvek. His head against Agatha’s, his arms loose around her, he had never looked so relaxed. Pretending it never happened? That was… odd. Suspicion growing, Gil let his arm tighten around Agatha’s shoulders. She gave a happy sigh and pressed closer against his side. Gil closed his eyes and counted to five before slowly releasing the breath he’d been holding. 

Maybe he could focus on something else. Agatha’s fingers moved in a nimble dance, manipulating springs and cogs into precise alignment. Gil could watch her work forever. Well, as long as she allowed it. And most of the time, he could watch her hands without imagining them touching him. 

Not today. Good job, Gil. 

He thought about her hands balled into tight fists, clutching him by the shirt, twisting the fabric until it creaked in her grasp. The way she had pulled him closer, held him there even as he—

Right, maybe think about something else? He couldn’t stop himself. He looked at Tarvek.

Tarvek, who was staring at him across the top of Agatha’s head. Oh, no. His stomach clenched, and he felt a heat rising within him. No. Don’t think about it. 

Tarvek looked away, but not before Gil saw the color rising in his cheeks. What? Why? 

Gil studied him. He really couldn’t help himself. The relaxed lines of Tarvek’s posture had drifted away, fading into tension through his shoulders, an annoyed tilt to his head, a slight twist of the spine. And just a touch of crimson at the tops of his ears. Maybe memorizing every detail would help Gil interpret what he saw. Experience told him otherwise. 

Tarvek’s shoulders squared, and his spine straightened. He lifted his head, something like defiance shining in his eyes. A hint of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth. No good will come of this, Gil thought a heartbeat or two before Tarvek’s tongue flicked out, playing across the scab on his lip. 

Oh. 

Oh, no. 

Gil stared, unable to look away, unable to stop the memories that sprang at him from every angle. Yesterday. Agatha holding him close while he’d turned just enough to kiss Tarvek too. Tarvek’s fingertips trembling a little, touching him lightly, like something sacred. Tarvek’s shoulders pressed against the wall, his body arching forward, pushing against Gil. When he had turned away to kiss Agatha again, Tarvek had whispered his name. “Gilgyamesh.”

That accent. That Balan’s Gap accent, which Tarvek had worked so hard to shed. The sound of it had broken something inside of Gil. The following moments blurred together in his memory. Tarvek’s soft cries filling his mouth, boiling in his ears. Agatha’s hand making a fist in his hair. The cool resistance of the wall. 

Then the taste of blood had yanked him out of his frenzy. He had done harm to someone he was supposed to cherish and protect. Tarvek’s blood stained his lips, burned on his tongue, its sharp copper tang shaming him for losing control. 

Now Tarvek toyed with the scab, his tongue sweeping across it in lazy, sensual movements. Gil felt sick and dizzy, his guilt at war with a thundering need to relive that careless kiss. He wanted another taste. His skin burned at the thought of it. His breaths came short and shallow. Tarvek smirked at him. 

“No fighting,” Agatha said to them. “Delicate work.”

Fighting. If Agatha could see them, she would know better. 

“We’re not fighting.” His gaze locked with Gil’s, Tarvek leaned closer, touched his lips to Agatha’s temple. Gil felt the distance between them dwindling, by centimeters, by mere millimeters. His pulse quickened. How? If his heart beat any faster, he might explode.

Tarvek’s tongue touched the scab again. Gil’s breath caught. His eyes followed the movement. His skin burned with mingled shame and desire. The rushing in his ears all but deafened him. He wanted to touch, wanted to taste. Wanted to pull Tarvek apart a little at a time until that accent emerged again. No, Gil, no. That’s not how it’s done. He drew a shuddering breath. Watched Tarvek’s tongue flick across his scabbed lip. Dammit. 

Tarvek sat up a little more, then. His lips pressed into a thin line, the scab disappearing between them. His eyes studied Gil’s face, but they’d gone unfocused behind his glasses, his thoughts somewhere else. No. No, don’t leave me. Gil’s hand flinched toward him, as though grabbing Tarvek would solve anything. As though he could drag them back into that moment. 

Why was it the uncomfortable moments that lasted forever?

Tarvek’s gaze hardened, his expression settling into something approaching revulsion. So that was it, then. He’d realized he deserved better. Choking on a stab of regret, Gil turned away. He slumped to the side, away from Agatha and Tarvek. 

They leaned all the more firmly against his side. 

“You frustrate me,” Tarvek muttered. Well, of course he did. He frustrated himself, didn’t he? Gil drew breath for a reply that would most likely come out wrong. 

“Delicate. Work.” The Spark thrummed in Agatha’s voice, rich and powerful and laced with a threat. Feeling liquified from head to toe, Gil sank back in his seat, his arm boneless around Agatha’s shoulders. Tarvek slumped against her other side, similarly helpless. Well, wouldn’t they be poor consorts to her if she couldn’t turn them to jelly with a word or two?

Better just to surrender. 

As he lost himself in the sound of Agatha’s humming, Gil’s fingers strayed toward the back of Tarvek’s neck. Warm skin. Soft hair. The softest, it always smelled of resin and spice, thanks to Tarvek’s special blend of hair oils. He refused to share his recipe, because a king must have _some_ secrets, or something like that. It didn’t really matter. Tarvek always smelled fantastic, and the fragrance came from his hair. Gil sighed a sigh that came out as a rumble of contentment. His fingertips trailed over the back of Tarvek’s neck. Tarvek leaned into the touch. So perhaps he was forgiven. Or maybe there was nothing to forgive. Someday he might even know the difference.


End file.
